(Untitled)

[jack_f_twist]

Seems that fence and that gate get worse ever year, and when Jack finally straightens, his back cracks in protest. One hand on the gate, the other on his hip, he looks out over the empty plains, squinting and sweating, before he swings the gate back and forth, testing

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[twisted_parents]

Creak creak.

creak creak.

creak creak.

The floorboards under his rocking chair ring out through the silent house as he watches his son over the paper he's not really reading.

[jack_f_twist]

Somehow that creak's worse'n the one from the gate, and Jack's back stiffens, even though he ain't yet turned around, ain't yet even said a word in greeting to his father.

"Fixed that gate up, like you wanted," he says, after swallowing half his glass of water and wishing it were something a hell of a lot stronger. His voice, loud and falsely cheerful in the silent kitchen, falls flat.

He turns around, leans against the counter, glass in hand, and tries in vain to meet his father's eyes.

"Was sure in a state. Thing gets worse ever year. Oughta think 'bout puttin' in a new one."

[twisted_parents]

creak creak

"Thought about it."

creak creak

"Think you know what's better for this place than me, then?"

Eyes back on the paper, the paper he's read before, the paper that's two fucking years old, but still more interesting than his son's yammering.

[jack_f_twist]

"Din' say that."

Jack watches him, watches the newspaper where it curls at the edges, and keeps his face carefully friendly, tries for a smile that doesn't quite make it.

"Was just tryin' to help you out, is all. And I'm sick a fixin' the same damn fence ever single time."

The joke sinks in his stomach like a rock, like the water he'd prob'ly drunk too fast.

It ain't the fence, of course. It's the whole damn ranch--gray and broke-down and run-down and creaking. He could fix it. He knows he could, with just a little bit of help--the right kind of help, this place could be a real ranch again.